On Paper
by MizJoely
Summary: Molly has a paper to write. Sherlock is overly solicitious, but she's too distracted and grateful for his assistance (when he isn't driving her crazy) to question why. Eventual Sherlolly.
1. I Only Wanted A Little Help!

_Another tumblr prompt!fic, this time for theaddress-is-221b-bakerst, who writes: __Ahhhh I'm so excited! Sherlolly , rated T. Molly has trouble with a paper she's trying to publish and Sherlock helps her by bringing her coffee, buying her dinner, feeding Toby etc.(can you tell I'm at the end of my wits with uni?…). It can be Established Sherlolly or they're still pining for one another, as long as there's a happy end :) Thank you again! You are wonderful :)_

_This was SUPPOSED to be a one shot but somehow, nine pages later, it's not finished. Oh, and parts of the second half will be in French, courtesy of the lovely and talented SherlockSteph, who saved me from having to rely entirely on Google Translate. Merci beaucoup!_

* * *

Molly Hooper had barricaded herself in her flat, taking an entire week off from work in order to finish up the damned research paper she was due to present at a conference in two months. In Paris. The paper was to be presented in English, but she'd been asked if she wouldn't mind doing an abstract in French as well, and although her conversational French was more than adequate, she felt intimidated at the thought of translating something so technically complex into another language.

To make it worse? The only person she knew who also spoke French – fluently, idiomatically, and with a flawless accent, of course – was Sherlock Holmes. Although they were friends now, ever since his return she'd been reluctant to call on that friendship, worried that it was still too tenuous. Especially after his (thankfully temporary) return to drug use and the (thankfully even more temporary) Janine thing, and then being shot and Magnussen and exile and Moriarty…

Ugh. He'd been through a helluva lot since his return from the dead (much of it his own doing, granted, and she would never regret slapping the crap out of him for being so stupid), and asking him to help translate an abstract of a paper on Retroviruses into French just seemed too trivial to bother with.

Still, Google Translate and her own skills could only go so far; she needed someone to look over the translation and make sure it made sense. She'd hate to get to the conference and make a fool of herself when reading the abstract (she'd do enough of that with her barely-adequate accent, thank you very much), so with a great deal of reluctance, she'd asked Sherlock if he wouldn't mind helping her, one day when the two of them were in the path lab together.

His enthusiasm had surprised her. "I don't get to practice my French much," he'd explained when she asked him why he was so eager to help. "Plus this is the first paper you've published since Moriarty came back, and well, it's good to see you getting back to normal."

He'd looked her squarely in the eyes the entire time, and Molly had become flustered and stammered out a thank you. God, she hadn't stammered around him in years, and all it took was one sincere compliment, if it could be characterized as such, and there she was, regressing to the lovestruck git she'd been back then.

Of course, if she was being honest, she'd never actually come out of that phase, she'd only learned to bury it, to make herself content with Sherlock's friendship and knowing he valued her for herself and not simply for the body parts she could procure for him. They'd long since left that stage behind. She still loved him, quietly and rather desperately, and had resigned herself to the knowledge that she always would.

She was musing on things of that nature rather than focusing on her paper when she was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of a key in the lock. The only other person besides herself to own a key was Sherlock, and she couldn't imagine why he'd be stopping by when she'd told him she was planning to draft the abstract out only after she'd finished her second set of revisions.

Toby meowed and hurried over to brush himself against Sherlock's legs as he breezed into the flat. Molly smiled but allowed her confusion to show at the sight of the small overnight bag in Sherlock's hand. "Going away on a case?" she guessed, although why he felt obliged to stop by and see her first was a mystery. A pleasant mystery, but a mystery nonetheless; surely if he didn't think he'd be around to assist her with her translation he'd simply have texted her?

"No, staying here for a few days," he replied nonchalantly. "Don't worry, I don't plan on sleeping much so that cramped little daybed of yours in the guest room will be fine." He continued past her into the flat, headed straight for the room in mention. He called over his shoulder, "And don't worry, Molly, I won't disturb your work. It's not that kind of a visit." Then she heard the door shut and found herself once more alone, with Toby meowing disconsolately in the hallway, cut off from his second favorite person without so much as a head-scratch.

Molly, somewhat bemused but used to Sherlock's comings-and-goings at odd hours of the day and night, just shook her head and went back to rewriting the middle section of the paper, which had been giving her so much trouble. Usually she had a hard time with the conclusions and the introduction, but for some reason those two parts had flowed beautifully, and it was the body of the paper that was giving her grief.

An hour later she looked up from the computer, sniffing appreciatively. Sherlock had apparently emerged from his den in order to fix her a cup of coffee and a sandwich, both of which were perched on the corner of her desk farthest from her messy pile of research materials and rough drafts. She took a sip and sighed in utter bliss; it was perfect, exactly how she liked it. Seeing him sitting at the counter that separated her kitchen from the living room, she called out her thanks and went back to work, alternating sips of coffee with bites of the sandwich until suddenly both were gone. She considered getting up and bringing the dishes to the kitchen, but she'd finally pinned down the most problematic part of her paper and so just shoved them to the side and went back to the keyboard.

Two more hours passed before she came back up for air, this time because her neck was sore and her back was sore and her arse was sore and her wrists were sore and her fingers were cramping. She knew better; no matter how ergonomically sound a chair and keyboard were, two – no, three, or was it four? – straight hours of typing weren't good for you. And her bladder was reminding her that she'd downed an entire cup of coffee…oh, wait, hadn't she reached over once to find that it had been refilled? So at least two cups of coffee…Molly groaned and stretched, winced and pushed herself out of her chair. She made her way to the loo, took care of business and felt a bit better afterwards. Moving around was helping as well, so before returning to her computer she went into her bedroom and made herself do a few minutes on the treadmill jammed between the bed and the dresser.

When she finally emerged from her room, she was surprised to see that the plate and coffee mug had been whisked away from her desk in her absence…and that the massaging cushion she'd purchased and never bothered to use had been removed from its box, plugged in and placed on her chair. She grinned, surprised and pleased at Sherlock's sudden bout of thoughtfulness; she'd never really seen the domestic side of him, hadn't believed it existed, to be honest, but to be the recipient of his attentions was nice. Very, very, nice, she decided as she looked around for him. A noise from the spare bedroom caught her attention; the muffled sounds of a violin playing, something slow and haunting that wouldn't distract her but was a nice change from the silence she'd surrounded herself in all afternoon.

She settled back in her seat and turned the massager on its lowest setting, feeling as refreshed and ready to return to her work. From time to time a small smile would break out over her face as she thought how nice it was to have someone fussing over her for a change…especially since that someone was Sherlock Holmes.

**oOo**

The next morning when Molly emerged from her shower, dressed and ready for another round of Research Wrestling, she was greeted with the enticing scent of coffee and some sort of baked goods, as well as the (equally enticing) sight of Sherlock stretched out on her sofa with Toby purring comfortably on his chest. "I've made breakfast," he announced without opening his eyes. His fingers were steepled under his chin in his classic 'thinking' pose, and until he spoke Molly hadn't been sure he'd even noticed her entry into the room. "Eggs under the warmer, fruit in the fridge. There's coffee brewing as well. Mrs. Hudson made scones and I brought them over, they're warming in the oven."

"Sherlock, you didn't have to go to all this trouble," Molly began, feeling a bit overwhelmed…but also feeling very, very pleased. "The paper's actually in pretty good shape now, I think I can manage to feed myself and Toby…"

"Like you did last night?" Sherlock sat up and gave her a very pointed scowl before glancing down at the now-disgruntled cat. "Luckily I know where you keep his food and how much to give him."

Molly blushed; had she really…yes, she had. She'd forgotten to feed Toby, and hadn't eaten anything herself for dinner, now that she thought about it. At least she'd had the sandwich and coffee for lunch. But she'd found a promising bit of research to buoy up her conclusions, and everything else had just faded away. "Sorry, thanks," she said, then headed for the kitchen and her first cup of coffee of the day.

Sherlock rose from the sofa and followed her, still scowling. "You take terrible care of yourself when you're immersed in scholarship," he scolded her, sounded very much like her father used to when she would get caught up in a school project and forget to eat. Although her father, of course, hadn't had such a deep, lovely voice that sent shivers up her spine. "I left the flat for a few hours last night only to discover upon my return that you'd gone straight to bed without following any of your usual nighttime routines."

He'd gone out? Molly didn't recall hearing him leave, but she'd been in her own world for most of the evening and so that wasn't so surprising. What was surprising, not to mention a little disconcerting, was hearing Sherlock scold her about taking care of herself. Talk about pot and kettle! When she made to voice that very comment, he spoke right over her. "I shall remain here to ensure that you don't forget to eat again, and I shall take over Toby's care until this paper is concluded. I've already rung John and asked him to bring me more clothes and my laptop, as I neglected to bring it with me when I returned last night."

Molly scowled right back at him, hands on her hips. Her expression might have been more intimidating if she hadn't just taken a big bite of one of Mrs. Hudson's heavenly scones and had to chew and swallow before saying, "I don't need a babysitter, Sherlock! Do I look like Lucy Watson to you?"

He looked her over head to toe and back again, lip curled as he took in her appearance: hair still wet from the shower, barefoot, wearing a pair of sloppy sweats, no makeup…oh, Molly knew exactly what he was thinking and stopped him by waiting until he opened his mouth to make a sarcastic comment and popping the remainder of her scone between his lips.

To his credit he chewed and swallowed rather than spitting it back out – then again, wasting one of Mrs. Hudson's scones would be an absolute crime. However, he continued to lecture her on her need to take better care of herself all while she made up a plate and dutifully ate breakfast. She hadn't known he could even break open an egg, let alone make up a plate of perfect, fluffy scrambled eggs, but he'd done so and her immediate instinct to spite him and not eat anything was sensibly ignored.

He wouldn't let her clean up, just sent her back to her computer with a mug of tea and a plate of biscuits "for later", then vanished – along with Toby – into the spare bedroom.

Molly quickly found herself immersed in her research, only briefly distracted when John and Mary appeared at her door, Sherlock's laptop and baby Lucy in tow. She cooed over the six-month-old, tickled her toes and belly and tried to offer her parents a cup of tea in thanks for their Sherlock-slogging duties, but the consulting detective himself interrupted them. "No, Molly, they can't stay, they're on their way to finally introduce Lucy to her Aunt Harriet in Brighton, now that John's sister has managed to straighten her life up – what, for the fifth or is it the sixth time now, John?"

"Sherlock," Mary said warningly, but there was a twinkle in her eyes, and she shared a rueful grin with Molly when he wasn't looking.

Molly gazed longingly after them when they left a few minutes later – Sherlock hadn't been exaggerating, they had a train to catch – but then her paper drew her back in and she was back in research land again, not resurfacing until lunch suddenly appeared at her elbow, this time a plate of Thai takeaway and a large glass of milk. She made a face at the milk but drank it down, knowing Sherlock would only fuss if she traded it in for a bottle of soda, which was what she _really_ wanted.

The routine continued thus for the next three days, with Sherlock only leaving the flat on the fourth morning when Greg Lestrade showed up and physically demanded his presence at a tricky crime scene. Molly swore she wouldn't forget to eat and absolutely positively wouldn't forget to feed Toby, and waved him off with a feeling of relief. Not that she didn't enjoy having Sherlock underfoot, but honestly, it was beginning to feel a bit like a fussy older relation had come to stay, one who insisted on bringing her tea and coffee and blankets whether she wanted them or not. One with killer cheekbones and voice to die for, yes, but the combination was a bit unsettling at times. Almost as unsettling as the thought that she could definitely get used to it.

Reminding herself firmly that this was a short-term thing, that Sherlock would revert to his usual habits soon enough and that this was another one of his bizarre attempts at showing her his thanks (he never did anything the way other people did, she knew that for sure), she picked up her iPod and stuck the buds in her ears. Soon enough she was happily humming along to a selection of lively classical music – nothing with lyrics, far too distracting, and she didn't need Sherlock to tell her that, thank you very much! – as she got back to work.


	2. Parlez-Vous Francais?

_A/N: Many thanks again to SherlockSteph for her assistance with the French conversation, and for making Molly's paper sound viable!_

* * *

The afternoon of the sixth day found Sherlock pausing in the act of opening Molly's front door. The sound of muffled yelling could be heard, and his instincts immediately told him to either slip inside unheard if possible or go around to the fire escape and enter through her bedroom window – he'd rigged an alarm that only he and Molly had the code to. Then he cocked his head and listened harder, grimacing as he recognized the sound of a very frustrated pathologist screaming into a pillow, rather than one being held at knifepoint by a drug-crazed lunatic.

He pushed the door open, satisfied that his analysis was correct when he saw Molly lying face-down on her overly-cheerful sofa, with its bright pattern of flowers and vague leaf-like greenery. She was wearing a colorful oversized tee-shirt and a pair of rather alarming blue-green-and-pink plaid sleep shorts. Her hair was pulled back in a sloppy braid, and there was a pile of paper and books on her low coffee table, next to her laptop. Clearly she'd reached the point in her research where she was utterly frustrated with everything she tried to write, and right on schedule, too. A bit ahead, actually, since he'd estimated she'd hit this wall tomorrow around lunchtime, but that was all to the good, as past observation of her writing routine meant she was much closer to finishing than she believed herself to be.

Why people couldn't recognize their own patterns never ceased to baffle him. He shut the door and stepped automatically over Toby, who had (per usual) run up to greet him and was busy winding himself around Sherlock's legs as he made his way to the kitchen. He set the bag of takeaway on the counter – Angelo's, he was in the mood for a large, hearty Italian meal after forty-eight hours of not eating while solving Lestrade's little puzzle for him – then checked Toby's dish. Good, Molly had remembered to feed him; he had fresh water, so all he needed was some attention, which Sherlock duly gave him before shedding his coat and shoes and strolling over to the sofa. "I see you're making progress," he said conversationally.

Molly looked up at him with murder in her eyes, her face red and strands of hair stuck to her cheeks. She looked utterly adorable, and Sherlock had to restrain himself from grinning at her like a complete idiot. Staying with her while she worked on her paper had been the logical thing to do, especially after she asked him for his assistance with the French abstract she had to read aloud, but he hadn't realized what being in such close proximity to her for such an extended period of time was going to do to him.

Well, no, that was a bit disingenuous. Actually he'd predicted what being in such close proximity to her would do, and had the quiet satisfaction – and discomfort – of being proven right. His feelings for Molly Hooper had undergone a series of upheavals the longer he knew her, and it was time for him to acknowledge that he actually might be in love with her. Past time, but it seemed every time he started analyzing their relationship and how he felt about her, something got in the way. Moriarty, most recently. Magnussen. Being shot. Janine. The drugs.

_Tom_.

He brought his mind back to the present, not a little disconcerted by the vitriol he continued to harbor toward Molly's ex-fiancé, the resentment he felt towards him for once occupying a position Sherlock Holmes was only now able to admit he had wanted for himself. Still did, truth be told, but now was certainly not the time to bring it up. He still had a great deal of work to do to convince Molly that he was worthy of her, that he could be Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and her boyf…significant other at the same time.

Like helping her with this paper, for example. Oh, not the writing or the researching, she had that well in hand; no, just the French bit. Starting now, before she could open her mouth and pour out her ridiculous frustrations and predictions that her paper was going to be a total failure – ridiculous because he'd read it and the changes she was making now only served to turn a very sound research document into an absolutely brilliant one. "Êtes-vous prêt pour moi d'aider à traduire le résumé de votre papier?"

Molly's response to a perfectly reasonable question – asked in French because after all that was the real reason he was here – was to sit up and throw her pillow at him, then stomp into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Sherlock gazed after her, a puzzled frown wrinkling his forehead, then sighed and tossed the pillow back on the sofa before returning to the kitchen and getting dinner ready for the two of them to share whenever she got over her current snit.

Honestly, people could be so childish at times.

**oOo**

Molly emerged from her room only because her stomach was growling and the dinner Sherlock had brought smelled absolutely delicious. She was still disgruntled and unhappy about her paper, but she chose to be gracious and forgive her for prodding her. Was she ready for him to help translate her abstract? No, she wasn't, it wasn't near ready. Well, it was written, of course, and she'd started her translation, but her French really wasn't up to it and she had no intentions of sharing it with him until she was certain she had her all her verbs parsed correctly.

She approached the counter and slid into the chair next to the one Sherlock was occupying. He'd already eaten and had his laptop open in front of him, studying the screen intently. Molly scooped up a forkful of pasta and glanced over, noting that it was a text document he had open, then dropped her fork to the plate as she exclaimed, "Hey! How did you…Sherlock! I didn't give you permission to read that yet!"

He was reading her paper. Her paper! The one she hadn't even finished writing yet! Damn, she really needed to find a better set of passwords for her computers!

A fact which he pointed out to her. "Honestly, Molly, if you didn't want me to read your paper you should have saved it with better encryption. Remind me to help you with that when this is all over, hmm? And this is an excellent start, but I think…"

She snapped the case shut, narrowly missing his fingers as she glared at him. "Sherlock Holmes, right now I don't care what you think," she said through gritted teeth. "So please, do me the courtesy of waiting until I give it to you to read, rather than stealing it from my computer!"

She was about to storm back to her bedroom when the touch of his hand on her wrist surprised her. She whipped her head around to stare at him, held in place as much by the honest repentance in his expression as by his loose hold on her wrist. "I'm sorry, Molly. It honestly never occurred to me that you might mind." She stared down at his warm fingers, which had now wrapped themselves around her wrist, wondering distantly if he could feel the pounding of her pulse such a simple touch provoked. "Um, it's all right," she said after a moment. "Just…next time, please ask, okay?"

He nodded, releasing his grasp on her with what appeared to be a great deal of reluctance, sliding the tips of his fingers across her racing pulse – oooh yes, he was damned well aware of the effect he was having on her, the bastard – before pulling his hand away entirely. Molly was torn between the desire to continue stomping off to her bedroom and finishing her dinner, and finally opted for the second choice when her stomach rumbled to remind her how long it had been since she'd fed herself today.

The remainder of dinner passed in a companionable silence; Sherlock reopened the laptop but very ostentatiously shut down and deleted the document he'd been reading before opening a browser and surfing the web.

Molly cleaned up when she finished, washed the few dishes they'd used, then decided a glass of wine might be a better choice than more caffeine. She offered Sherlock one, which he started to decline, hesitated, then accepted with a tentative smile. "Yes, you're forgiven," she told him with a wry grin of her own. "I shouldn't have snapped at you, but this paper, it's giving me fits and I just…I know your French is better than mine, but I want to have a go at finishing the abstract on my own before giving it over to you for correcting."

He raised an eyebrow at that remark, watching as she began her usual struggle with the corkscrew. Brushing her aside impatiently, he opened the bottle himself. "It really doesn't make any sense to do the work twice over, Molly," he said disapprovingly. "A waste of time, really. You know you can trust me not to change anything during the translation process, don't you?"

He sounded almost hurt, and his mouth was stretched in such an adorable pout that Molly had to restrain herself from cupping his face in her hands and planting a kiss on his forehead. Or the tip of his nose. Or possibly his li…no, not going there, she chided herself as she accepted a glass of wine from him. "I know, but it's just…if I do the initial translation, it'll help cement it in my mind better, connect the English and the French versions better, if you know what I mean. Otherwise it's just one document I wrote and one you wrote and they're separate, rather than something we did together…and I cannot believe I just said that!" she exclaimed, taking rather a large sip of the wine to cover her sudden embarrassment. "Sorry! That sounded incredibly sappy and sentimental and it's just a research paper!"

"Go get it." She wrinkled her brow in confusion, and Sherlock nodded toward the pile of papers on her coffee table in the living room. "Go get it, finish your translation and let me look it over, then we'll get some practice in. I know it's been a while since you've spoken French, and a few rehearsals are certain to help."

Thus it was that Molly found herself, not twenty minutes later, reading her abstract aloud to Sherlock.

Who, as it turned out, was not the most patient of listeners. Quelle surprise.

"Tu m'as dit que tu parlais français!" Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation. And of course, in impeccably accented French.

Molly, however, was up to the challenge, and immediately replied in the same language. "Je le parle très bien. Mais tu dois admettre que ce n'est pas tous les jours que nous employons dans une conversation _virus de l'immunodéficience humaine_ et _enzyme virale_."

"Encore, tu le fais!"

"Faire quoi, Sherlock?" exclaimed the pathologist in annoyance.

"Prononcer incorrectement. Le 'y' dans enzyme se prononce comme le 'e' en anglais. Toute personne qui parle correctement le français le sait. Où as-tu appris ton français ? Dans un fond de ruelle?" said Sherlock, still in the language of Molière.

The young woman was happy to continue in that language, her confidence growing as her disused language skills came back with more and more ease. "Sherlock Holmes! Qu'est-ce que la prononciation peut bien faire, ce qui m'importe, c'est le contenu de mon article? LE CONTENU! Par ailleurs, si tu continues à m'insulter, je ne te retiens pas. Je suis certaine que Toby peut m'aider davantage que tu le fais présentement."

Annoyed at being compared to a cat, the detective stopped and waved his hand, indicating that Molly should continue her explanation of the complexity of the retrovirus. She hid a smile and launched into a detailed explanation about the difference between an exogenous retroviruses and endogenous retroviruses. Sherlock cringed at the way Molly pronounced certain words, but there was a duty not to stop, because what she had written was extremely interesting and in spite of her protestations to the contrary, in almost impeccable French. He was actually quite impressed that he only needed to change two or three words to their proper form.

"Molly, j'arrive aux mêmes conclusions, c'est-à-dire que le virus pourrait être neutralisé avec une séquence génétique hôte dans le sang de la personne contaminée. On est fantastique! Nous allons recevoir un prix de la communauté scientifique pour cette découverte."

"Comment ça 'on'? J'ai fait ce travail seul, Sherlock Holmes, tu n'as fait qu'une correction de type orthographique."

"Molly, je tiens vraiment à m'excuser pour mon comportement arrogant un peu plus tôt, je n'aurais pas dû critiquer ta prononciation d'autant plus que j'ai trouvé ton accent assez séduisant," Sherlock finished with a flirtatious wink of the eye.

Molly refrained from rolling her own eyes at the sight of him reverting to old habits in an attempt to charm her into doing what he wanted. "Ne change pas de sujet. La flatterie ne t'amènera pas à être autorisé à co-signer ma publication."

Unabashed, Sherlock grinned at her. "Même si j'ajoute un 's'il te plait'?"

Molly grinned back at him, finally giving into the giggles at how ridiculous the conversation had become. "No, not even if you say please – or even 'pretty please'! Now let's get back to the abstract before I throw you out of my flat, you impossible man!"

"Nonsense," he replied lightly, reverting to English as she had already done. "You love me too much to do something like that."

Molly froze, unwilling to believe he'd just said that to her. "Sherlock, that's not…you shouldn't…I think it's time for you to leave," she said, her voice quavering but not breaking as she rose abruptly to her feet.

He looked bewildered as he, too, stood up. "What? What did I say? It's the truth, we both know it, so why…Oh," he added in sudden comprehension, the specter of John Watson rising up before his mind's eye with a disapproving frown on his face. "That was…not good. Was it."

Molly shook her head. "No, Sherlock. Not good at all. Now, please, just…go. Let me finish this paper in peace. I think I've got a handle on my pronunciation now, and a few practice sessions in front of the bathroom mirror should take care of it. Thank you for your help, but please, just…go."

Then she turned and walked – not stomped, not ran, certainly not fled – to her bedroom, not waiting to see if he would do as she'd asked or not.

Leaving a very confused and unhappy consulting detective to wonder how he could fix this.

* * *

_Loose Translation of the French conversation:_

_"You told me that you spoke French!" Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation._

_Molly immediately replied in French: "I speak very well. But you must admit that it is not every day that we use 'human immunodeficiency virus' and 'viral enzyme' in conversation!"_

_"You did it again!"_

"_Did what, Sherlock?" exclaimed the pathologist with annoyance._

"_Speak incorrectly. The 'y' in enzyme is pronounced like the 'e' in English. Anyone who speaks French correctly knows. Where did you learn your French? In a back-alley?"_

"_Sherlock Holmes! What difference does my pronunciation make, when what matters to me is the content of my article? CONTENT! Furthermore, if you continue to insult me , I won't hold back. I'm sure Toby can help me more than you do now."_

_Annoyed at being compared to a cat, the detective stopped and waved his hand, indicating that Molly should continue her explanation of the complexity of the retrovirus. She hid a smile and launched into a detailed explanation about the difference between an exogenous retroviruses and endogenous retroviruses. Sherlock cringed at the way Molly pronounced certain words, but there was a duty not to stop, because what she had written was extremely interesting and in spite of her protestations to the contrary, in almost impeccable French. He was actually quite impressed that he only needed to change two or three words to their proper form._

"_Molly, I came to the same conclusions; you're correct in believing that the virus could be neutralized with a host gene sequence in the blood of the infected person. It is fantastic! We will receive an award from the scientific community for this discovery."_

_"What do you mean, 'we'? I did this work alone, Sherlock Holmes, you only corrected my errors."_

"_Molly, I really want to apologize for my arrogant behavior earlier, I would not have had to criticize your pronunciation especially since I found your quite attractive accent." __Sherlock finished with a flirtatious wink of the eye._

_Molly refrained from rolling her own eyes at the sight of him reverting to old habits in an attempt to charm her into doing what he wanted. __"Don't try to change the subject. Flattery won't get you to be co-author on my publication."_

_"Even if I add a 'please'?"_


	3. Fix It, Sherlock!

_A/N: Hooray, I finished! One prompt down, six to go! Thanks to everyone for following and favoriting, and to nocturnias for giving me a quick read over, and to SherlockSteph for her amazing Francois and to theaddress-is-221b-bakerst on tumblr for giving me the prompt in the first place. :)_

* * *

"I'm sorry, you said _what_ to her?"

Sherlock flashed John an annoyed look. "Don't be thick, John, you heard me."

His friend flashed an equally annoyed look right back at him. "Yeah, I heard you, I just couldn't believe my ears. Why on earth would you throw her feelings for you in her face like that? I thought you were done being a complete dick to Molly!"

"I wasn't throwing them back in her face!" Sherlock protested, but the look John gave him was skeptical at best.

"John's right, Sherlock," Mary piped up as she entered the room. She'd been putting his goddaughter down for a nap and had obviously caught the gist of the conversation. She perched on the arm of John's chair and laid her arm across her husband's shoulder. "Even if you didn't intend it that way, that's definitely the way it came out. Or at least, if I was Molly, that would be how it would have seemed to me."

She gave Sherlock a stern look. "So now you've told your side of the story, Sherlock, and we've corrected you. What do you plan to do to fix things?"

He started to run his hands through his hair, but controlled himself at the last second, knowing it was one of his 'tells' indicating frustration – which Mary clearly recognized, judging by her infuriating smirk. Instead he tried giving the two of them a haughty stare-down-the-nose as he snapped out, "Nothing. There's nothing to 'fix', Mary. Molly is angry—"

"Hurt," Mary corrected him with another stern look. "She's not angry, Sherlock, she's hurt. And yes, there bloody well is something to fix and you know it. You can't just pull one of your 'I'll avoid her for a few days and when I see her in the morgue I'll act like nothing happened and she'll go along with me because she loves me' routines."

Sherlock stared at her, once again completely nonplussed, then glanced at John. "I have a 'routine' involving Molly that requires that much detail to describe?"

John nodded. "Yeah, you kind of do. But Mary's right; this time, you crossed a line, and I don't think Molly will be in a 'forgive and forget' kind of mood about it. Not until you apologize, anyway," he added.

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air in disgust and made as if to storm out of the room, stopped only by Mary's quiet voice behind him. "Don't say you don't do apologies, Sherlock, because John has told me that you do. But only to one person. So maybe you should shuck your ridiculous pride in this instance and tell Molly you're sorry."

He shrugged and continued toward the front door, not even hesitating as John called after him, "And while you're at it, you bloody idiot, tell her how you feel about her, too!"

Then he pulled the door shut behind him – careful not to slam it no matter how much of a snit he was in, mindful not to wake up his goddaughter – and threw himself into the rental car parked behind John and Mary's vehicle.

It was two days since The Incident. Two days during which he'd neither attempted to contact Molly, nor had her attempt to contact him. She was due to return to work in the morning, and even without John and Mary explicitly telling him so, he knew he needed to fix this before that happened. He'd made a mistake while she was working on her paper and, irrational though it might be, he decided he wanted to make things up to her before she finished it.

**oOo**

The sound of someone knocking on her front door gave Molly pause; it was the middle of the day and most of her neighbors were at work or out running errands. Since whoever it was hadn't rung the buzzer at the front of the building, that meant it could only be one person.

"Go away, Sherlock," she said from her seat on the sofa. She was nearly done with her paper and had no patience for him at the moment. Especially not after he'd thrown her feelings for him in her face like that. God, why did she even bother with him? Just because she knew he considered her a kinda-sorta friend didn't mean he'd stopped being a complete berk at times.

The answer, of course, was simple: she loved him, just as he'd so casually mentioned the last time she'd seen him. As if it was nothing important, just something to taunt her about…

Her temper was rising as she seethed over his treatment of her, but she still heard the second knock on her door, as if he were ignoring her words. Well, that was typical; if it wasn't what Sherlock wanted to hear, then he simply didn't hear it. However, her rising ire was abruptly checked when she heard him say through the door, "Please, Molly. Let me explain."

It was the 'please' that did it. She never heard him use that word except sarcastically, or when he was using politeness as a tool or a weapon. She'd certainly never heard him use it so quietly and with so much emotion; even through the barrier of the door she could hear what sounded like sincerity. And he was coming here of his own free will, her conscience prodded her. Best to let him have his say and make a decision as to how angry she would remain afterwards.

With a sigh, she rose to her feet, depositing her laptop on the coffee table before padding over the door. She was barefoot, wearing a sloppy rugby shirt and a pair of comfortable shorts over her knickers and nothing else, with her hair loose. She hadn't planned on going anywhere or seeing anyone today, but she never felt put-together enough in Sherlock's presence, so her appearance really shouldn't make any difference. Still, she self-consciously straightened her oversized shirt where it had gone askew, revealing her shoulder, and combed her fingers through her hair before unlatching the door and opening it.

She regarded the man standing in the hall, examining him from head to foot and back up again. He was impeccably dressed as always, in black dress trousers, Italian loafers, his trusty Belstaff and scarf hiding any other details. However, she didn't need a magic-eight ball to predict that he would be wearing a suit jacket and tight, possibly jewel-toned button-up beneath the outer layer.

As for his face, he looked…somber. Yes, that was exactly the right word to describe his expression. Not merely 'serious' or 'sober', but 'somber'. She stared up at him, knowing her own expression might best be described as 'stormy', and waited for him to say something.

"Um, may I come in?" he finally asked, sounding abashed. Molly jerked her head in response and stepped aside, silently waiting until he was fully inside before closing the door. She turned and leaned against it, arms folded, and waited again for him to say whatever it was he'd come to say. To 'explain', as he'd put it.

"I'm sorry." The apology was abrupt, spoken nervously, and not what Molly had expected him to say. Not even close.

It was, however, a nice kind of unexpected, but she wasn't letting him off the hook that easily. "Why?"

His brow furrowed as he stared at her. "Why am I apologizing?"

She shook her head. "No. Why are you sorry?" It was subtle distinction, but she wanted to make sure he understood it before this went any further. "Are you sorry that I got upset with you, or are you sorry for what you said to make me upset?"

"Both, actually," he replied, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. "I realize I shouldn't have said it, although to be fair, I hadn't realized it would make you uncomfortable."

With three quick steps Molly was standing in front of him, glaring into his startled face. "No, Sherlock, you didn't make me _uncomfortable_," she snapped. "You _hurt_ me. You threw my feelings for you in my face – and yes, I get that wasn't what you thought you were doing," she added when he seemed about to object. His mouth snapped shut and he continued to meet her gaze as she continued, "I know we've gotten to the point where we can tease one another, and I like that, what it means to our friendship, but to so blithely say that I wouldn't do something because I love you too much? To make it sound like that doesn't mean anything, or isn't important?" She shook her head. "That wasn't good. It hurt. And I need to know that you understand why. And if you don't," she added, sharpening her gaze and steeling herself for the painful response she was sure she was about to receive, "then I need you to leave. Right now. And don't come back. Our professional relationship can continue, I'm not so petty as to throw you out of the morgue just because of a personal rift, but that's all we'll have in future."

Sherlock's mouth had opened at some point during her diatribe, and it remained open for a long moment after she fell silent. Just as she was about to demand that he say something, he once again surprised and flustered her by doing the unexpected.

He untucked his hands from his pockets, reached for her, and pulled her close for a long, lingering kiss.

Molly sank into the kiss for a blissful moment, her mind entirely blank and her anger and hurt feelings vanished like smoke…until an unpleasant, long-ago memory of Sherlock's habit of flirting with her to get his way trickled into the forefront of her mind. She pulled away scowled. "Don't try to get round me by pretending…"

"I'm not pretending anything," Sherlock broke in testily. "I'm trying to do as John recommended – well, ordered me, actually," he corrected himself, "and not only apologize, but also show you how I feel."

That shut up any further protests Molly might have had. She stared at him. "How you…how do you feel, then?" she asked, needing to hear the words, to have verbal confrontation of what she believed the kiss represented. Because she had no desire to misinterpret things…no matter how little such a kiss should actually be open to interpretation, with Sherlock, you never knew.

He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before huffing and throwing his hands up in the air. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked. "I just spent an entire week catering to your needs, assisting you with your paper, and not because you asked me to…"

"That's so true," Molly murmured, unable to stop herself. She did, however, manage to keep the grin mostly under control, only allowing a single dimple to show as she waited for him to finish.

He glared at her, but she knew his expressions rather well by now and simply waited for him to finish. With another huff he pulled her back into his arms. "I've bloody well fallen in love with you, Molly Hooper, with your ridiculous jokes and poor conversational skills and atrocious French accent and that annoying bloody beast," he added, directing his glare downward. Molly tilted her head to see Toby winding his way around Sherlock's ankles, purring like mad, and the giggles she'd been fighting finally escaped.

She threw her arms around Sherlock's neck while he stared at her as if she'd gone mad, and when she finally had the breath to speak, he words were muffled against the collar of his coat. "God, Sherlock, do you know how long I've waited to hear you say something like that to me?" She peered up at him. "But don't say it unless you truly mean it," she warned. "I'm not Janine, there'd better not be a case or something on. If you just need me to do something for you, just say it and I'll do…"

For the second time in less than ten minutes, Sherlock's lips were on hers, cutting off her words before she could work herself up into another rant.

"Not a case, not using you, not an experiment," he murmured when the kiss ended. "Not even an attempt to get you to give me credit in your paper."

"Chance would be a fine thing," she scoffed, but smiled to soften any sting her words might carry.

"Fair enough," he replied, his expression softening as he cupped her cheeks in his hands. "Nothing but the simple truth, Molly. I've fallen in love with you and if I hadn't been such an idiot, I would have recognized how my feelings had changed long ago and given us both what we want: a future together. Or is it too soon for me to say something like that?" he added, peering down at her worriedly. "John says I get ahead of myself far too often, and if I've done so, do be sure to tell me…"

It was Molly's turn to stifle his words with a heartfelt kiss, her arms wrapping round his waist as his encircled her shoulders.

"I think it sounds lovely," she said after a moment.

He beamed at her, then abruptly pulled back, took her by the shoulders, and spun her around so she was facing her messy coffee table. "Excellent! Now finish up that paper so we can go out to dinner to celebrate!"

Molly's grin never left her face even as she wrestled with the final touches on her paper.

Sherlock might have a tendency to put his foot in it, but sometimes the words that came out of his mouth were absolutely perfect.


End file.
